by Jules Watson
Abruptly, Agricola breathed out, flattening his palms on his thighs as he stared into the flickering lamp-flame. He must rediscover the rage at the Erin prince which had consumed him only weeks ago, when Lucius returned. Samana always helped with this, for her sexual fire drew out other, baser emotions in him. Yet Samana’s fire had also been quenched, and she was not here.
Agricola threw himself to his camp bed and sat with head in hands. Jupiter! He had to find the cold fury again, the sharp edge of it. For that was the only way to ignore the deeper parts of him, the dark sea inside that heaved and roiled with fear – a greater enemy than even the Erin prince. He must not let it get the better of him.
He could not – for that way lay defeat.
CHAPTER 53
Closing her eyes, Rhiann sank lower in the wooden tub beside her own bed, letting the scented water lap her chin. In the three moons she had been away from Dunadd she had enjoyed fine hospitality, yet all that time the burden of responsibility had sat heavy on her shoulders. The first thing she had done on her return was walk into Caitlin’s arms, and hold her sister in silence for an age. In the tightening of her embrace, Rhiann asked for forgiveness, and it was given freely, without Caitlin needing to speak. And despite the threat that now lay over them, the second thing Rhiann had done was draw a bath.
For until she let go of all that tension, and the confusion of her rushed journey home, she knew she wouldn’t be able to think clearly about what to do next.
Caitlin, of course, had been unable to leave Rhiann alone even for the length of that bath, and she stood behind the tub now, lathering Rhiann’s wet hair with soaproot, as Gabran pulled himself up, standing on the bedscreen. Rhiann reached out one wet hand to stroke his soft head, the blond hair spiralling into curls at his nape. He jerked and looked up at her with Conaire’s eyes, big and blue above Caitlin’s little, pointed chin.
‘I had many messages from Conaire, Rhiann,’ Caitlin was gabbling. ‘Many hundreds of Romans were killed in that last attack; perhaps a thousand! A great victory!’
Rhiann closed her eyes again as soap dribbled down her forehead. ‘And is that all his last message said?’ she asked, as Caitlin’s fingers stilled in her hair.
‘No … he also told me to leave Dunadd.’ Caitlin’s voice dropped for a moment. ‘But I couldn’t go, Rhiann, not without you. I knew you must return before the snows. I was going to wait at least until the storms came.’
Rhiann tilted her head back on the tub to peer at her sister through the steam. She was very glad to see that Caitlin’s health had returned in full – she was brown as a nut, her nose sprinkled with freckles, lean and robust from being outdoors. In fact, she looked as if she’d been living in her buckskins and sleeveless tunic, putting aside her dresses while they were away. ‘You should have looked to your own safety first,’ Rhiann reminded her. ‘For Gabran.’
Caitlin’s cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip. ‘Our scouts would tell us as soon as the Romans crossed the mountains, and then I would have gone.’
‘Yet many others have already left. I would have been happier if you had been among them.’
‘Rhiann!’ Caitlin pushed Rhiann’s head upright and vigorously rubbed her hair. ‘The Romans will never set foot here, and you know it!’
Rhiann wiped drips of water from her eyelids. Her sister’s chatter had a brittle edge, and despite her ruddy health her eyes, usually open and guileless, were veiled. It came to Rhiann then that of course her sister’s fear ran as deep as her own, and Rhiann reached one hand behind to grip Caitlin’s wrist.
‘They will come back to us,’ Rhiann whispered. ‘And I am home now to hold you as you held me.’
For a moment the tendons of Caitlin’s wrist were hard beneath Rhiann’s fingers, until Gabran broke the moment, falling over with a loud thud and a squawk.
Caitlin bent and retrieved her son, swinging him up into the air and over her shoulder, pretending to bite his rump, as he squealed and kicked, his tears forgotten. ‘He’s nearly walking, Rhiann, did you see?’
‘I saw.’ Rhiann smiled up at them both, as Caitlin balanced Gabran on the side of the wooden tub. His mother had sewn him little boots that laced up his calf, and a set of buckskins like those she wore. ‘I also see he’ll soon be too big for you to lift! He takes after his father, in truth.’ Rhiann reached up to touch Gabran’s cheek, but three moons in a baby’s life are an immense span of time, and the little boy shrunk back and buried his face in Caitlin’s shoulder.
‘He will get used to you again,’ Caitlin reassured her briskly, seeing the hurt in Rhiann’s face.
Rhiann slid back down into the steaming bath. ‘If we were at peace, I never would have been away from him.’ She swirled the water with her fingers. ‘Yet I must tell myself it was worth it. All those cold, rainy days, those aches and pains, surely they were worth it, even if the help has not yet come.’
When Caitlin did not answer, Rhiann glanced up, and this time her sister’s face betrayed a tense excitement. ‘I wanted to wait until you were warm and fed,’ Caitlin whispered, hardly daring to speak aloud. ‘But I am terrible with secrets.’ She hoisted Gabran on her hip. ‘Two messengers were just yesterday lodged in the King’s Hall. They are waiting for Eremon.’
Rhiann stared up at her, frowning in confusion. ‘But who are they?’
‘They are from the Creones and Boresti, sister.’
Rhiann sat bolt upright, water streaming from her bare shoulders, and Caitlin’s hand covered Rhiann’s fingers with a fierce grip. ‘They have come to swear allegiance to the Epidii war leader and to Calgacus. They are going to join our men, Rhiann, because of you!’
Eremon stared down at the Pass of the Winds in the mountains to Dunadd’s east.
‘See there,’ Conaire pointed out now, his hoarse voice betraying his own tiredness.
Eremon squinted up and down the valley, his eyes burning from exhaustion. He had traversed this very pass many times before, always in small parties. Yet now, looking through the eyes of desperation and survival, he could see much more.
A narrow, winding path came from the south, doubling back on itself over and over to climb the heights of the pass. On one side of this trail rose steep slopes of loose scree and hanging boulders. The other side fell away to a river that rushed in white, foaming turmoil along the valley floor.
Eremon scratched at his jaw with a dirty nail. We cannot be sure they will come this way.’
‘But, brother, they don’t know we have arrived before them, and all the Epidii scouts agree – if they want to get to Dunadd quickly, it must be this way.’
Pursing his lips, Eremon dug the butt of his spear into the earth at his feet. As he did, he dislodged a large clod of mud and gravel, and several stones rolled free and came to rest against his toes. He stared at them, deep in thought, and then his eyes roved further, over the valley slopes. The days of rain had cleared, yet every surface ran with water, and small rocks and slides of mud had already peeled away from the slopes higher up. The river below was in full spate, foaming over its dark rocks. Then his gaze locked with Conaire’s, and something leaped between them.
‘How much time do the scouts think we have?’ Eremon smiled, the dried sweat and mud around his mouth cracking.
Conaire was also beginning to grin, his blue eyes blazing. Their best estimate is two or three days. The men could manage four hours of sleep, and then be back up here felling trees – and there might be some logs in the stream bed.’
‘So the land itself will aid us, making it that much harder for our friend Agricola to come calling.’
‘They will be packed into this valley like butter in a mould, brother,’ Conaire replied.
Two days later the sun was directly above Agricola, the glare blinding him as he stopped his horse and peered up the length of the valley that crossed the mountains. Ahead, a thin, white trail snaked up the steep glen, disappearing behind the looming shoulder of one of the close-crowding hills.
Agri
cola hated Alban mountains. The careless contempt with which they seemed to watch over the humans below aggravated him, and the valleys were just as hostile, with slopes that rose directly from barely visible sheep paths winding about their bases. And everywhere, always, there was water: mud, sleet, snow, streams, rain, drizzle, fog and mist.
‘Stop babbling!’ he snapped now. ‘Summarize my options, and be concise!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Alban scout standing before him gestured with his yew bow, slurring his way through the Latin words. ‘Halfway up this glen, another valley breaks off to the west. But it ends at a sea loch, and you must then turn north to get to the same place you would reach by going directly over the pass. Or you could go back to the loch of the beacon and continue north, but then it is a long way before you can safely turn west again.’ He watched Agricola warily. ‘Your third choice is climbing, but the mountains are treacherous in every way, shrouded by mists.’
Agricola smoothed his horse’s warm, gleaming neck, his thoughts racing. He had told his officers never to chance the narrow valleys and high hills of Alba, but there was no way to avoid them now. If he wanted Dunadd, they were the obstacles he must negotiate. Yet the scout had reported something else – a rockfall blocking the path up this valley, their best route. Such landslides were common here, apparently.
Agricola swallowed the temptation to rail at his own gods, and instead contented himself with cursing every Alban god he could recollect. There was little choice but to clear the path and press on. After all, he had committed himself this far, and the closer he came to Dunadd the more the memories of the Erin prince taunted him, beckoning him over these last few miles.
His force this time was mixed, drawn from the Ninth Legion units he had not taken south with him, and the Second Adiutrix Legion, which had also remained in Alba and was therefore fresher. Now they began to advance in a shining red snake up the narrow path, strung out with baggage trains, foot soldiers and some auxiliary cavalry in front and rear.
What awaited them at the top was nothing that the scout had anticipated.
With a loud curse, Agricola yanked his horse back as the first arrows skittered off the rocks above his advance guard. Ordering his mounted officers to pull up just beyond firing range, Agricola surveyed the rockfall before them.
An enormous pile of broken scree and mud had been brought down from the loose slopes above, and the agents of that dislodgement – logs and brush and branches – were all mixed in with the rock, spilling over the path and into the chasm of the stream on the other side. It formed a barrier like the rampart of a fort – a defendable rampart. On top of the blockade and high on the slopes behind it, archers were now visible, and other figures moved along the edge of the bank.
Because the path was so narrow, Agricola saw immediately that he could not get enough men together to walk abreast in any defensive formation, to protect themselves from barbarian missiles. Cursing to himself, he withdrew his officers to a safer distance to confer. ‘How many men do you judge to be defending?’ he asked one primus pilus.
‘There is no way to tell, sir,’ the man replied, his hand moving restlessly over his sword hilt. ‘Only around a hundred are visible, but they could have a thousand waiting for us over the other side, for all we know.’
‘And they have the advantage of the terrain.’ Agricola’s pulse was pounding with irregular, frustrated beats, and he sought for the Alban scout. ‘Can we enter that side valley without getting within range of those archers?’
The Alban immediately nodded, hawking and spitting on the ground. ‘You must go back some way to cross the river. Then you’ll be on the other side, from where the second glen opens up.’
‘Good.’ Agricola turned to his officers. To his horror his hands were trembling, and he laid them flat on his mount’s neck, taking a deep breath. It was against all his better judgement, yet there was no other way. ‘We will split our forces. Half the men can come with me. We will take this side valley and come at the barbarian defenders from the other side of the blockade. The other column can advance from this side. If we both attack at the same time, trapping them, we can clear the path and join our men again.’
The eldest tribune was frowning beneath his crested helmet, his horse side-stepping nervously. ‘We don’t know how many men are over that barrier, though. I suggest that we shouldn’t weaken our forces by dividing them.’
‘And what would you suggest?’ Agricola barked. We can’t go back, not now we are so close. Not now I have committed them. I cannot lose this …
It might be his last, and only, chance to strike such a blow with the Erin prince’s warband so far away. And all that Agricola could gain was yanking on that noose of rage and fear that had been tightening for moons. His only chance, and it could all be over.
‘Not a single one of you has come up with a better plan.’ A trickle of sweat ran from under Agricola’s helmet and down his cheek. ‘There can be only a few scattered defenders, for we know, to Lucius’s cost, that their larger force remains in the north, and I have sent some mounted units by ship to keep them distracted. They do not even know we are here! Yet tell me another way to get us to this Dunadd and I will listen.’
No one spoke, or met his eyes.
‘Then we will leave now.’ Agricola wiped the sweat away with a gloved hand, and pushed his wet hair from his eyes. It was infernally hot in this direct sun. ‘I want to be at the shores of this western loch come nightfall, and then we will advance on them tomorrow.’ His eyes sought out the legate of the Ninth Legion. ‘Take your men back down to that spur of flat land against this loch of the beacon. There you can camp for the night. With the water at your back, it is defendable, although these lands are deserted from what we can see. Tomorrow, come back up here and wait for our signal to attack.’
The officers were dismissed and, with trumpets and cries from the centurions, the soldiers and cavalry were rearranged and turned around. The huge force gradually broke in two as the first column started back down the valley, seeking for the river crossing.
Agricola rode near its head, focused on the safety of his horse’s footing over the slippery rocks and gravel, endeavouring with all his will to quiet the conflicting voices that seethed within.
Eremon would allow no fires, but that dusk, in a narrow, high valley to the north-east, he judged it safe enough to light a single torch stuck into a low crevice in the rock wall. Crouched around this feeble flame, his troop leaders stared up at the returning Epidii scout with mounting disbelief.
‘They’ve split their forces?’ Eremon repeated hoarsely. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
The man nodded and leaned on his spear with both hands, his eyes shining in the glow of the sputtering flame. ‘My lord, we tracked them far enough to know they’ve committed to this division. Half their men will be nearing the Loch of the Salmon as we speak.’
‘And the other half ?’ Lorn asked, the edge in his voice betraying profound excitement.
The scout’s teeth gleamed in the half-dark. ‘They’ve retreated to the Loch of the Beacon, and set up camp on its shores.’
Eremon gazed at the rock shelf above Lorn’s head, its crevices black with shadow. His heart had leaped into life, pounding with insistence against his chest as if demanding his attention. They have left us a force of two thousand men by the loch; two thousand, to our thousand.’
‘Much better odds,’ Colum murmured, to his left.
‘Then, by the Mare, we can take them!’ Lorn laughed, slapping his thigh. ‘What do you say, prince? Shall we storm them at dawn?’
Eremon fought to think clearly through the tide of elation that swept his breast. They’d listened, his gods. They favoured him once more! He slowly rose, placing his palm against the cold rock to centre himself. The evening wind that came over the peaks above caught at his face, and the sudden chill focused his mind.
‘No,’ he said at last, addressing the crescent of faces lit up in the torch’s glow. ‘We will attack ton
ight, when they are sleeping. There will be enough moonlight, once the wind clears these few clouds. The Caereni archers can go in first, to shoot the sentries. This will buy us a little time. Then we cross the palisade and run down their tents.’
Lorn sprang to his feet, one fist clenched. ‘Then I will be first to bury my sword in a Roman neck!’
There were murmurs of approval from the other Epidii warriors, and the atmosphere was instantly charged with a fierce exultation.
Across the leaping of the torch-flame in the wind, Eremon fixed Lorn with a calm gaze. ‘I honour your courage, son of Urben, yet we can’t allow any wild rush in the dark. It’s too dangerous, once the Romans all awaken.’
Lorn’s pale eyes narrowed dangerously, but Eremon stilled him with a raised hand. ‘This is the time to act as one beast, as they do, with control. I want to use the formation we have practised: over the bank; kill as many as possible in their tents; then undertake a controlled retreat at an appointed time. If we break apart as a group, they will soon wake and organize a counter-attack.’ He held Lorn’s gaze. ‘We cannot risk leaving Dunadd at their mercy.’
Lorn’s mouth worked with frustration. ‘The gods have put this chance in our hands! We must meet it as Albans, shouting the war cries so the gods know we fight for them!’
‘This we have done already, for moons.’ Eremon’s voice betrayed his own irritation. He and Lorn would never see eye to eye on the question of Roman versus Alban tactics. ‘But now we have a chance to attack a Roman camp on open ground – this, at last, is where our practice can bear fruit! We can’t let our forces fragment, and that’s my final word.’
Lorn looked as if he dearly wished to argue further, but then he seemed to remember his vow of allegiance, as he always did, and at last his eyes slid away. ‘Well,’ he added, with a familiar toss of that silver head, ‘when a Roman throat meets my sword, I won’t care how it got there.’
